


Not Running

by superagentwolf



Series: A Spell or Two [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles comes to a decision regarding the time-travel spell he used that's slowly killing him. The risk becomes scary, though, when something happens that he could never have predicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Running

Stiles watches the moon from his window. It’s full tonight.

It’s been three days since the pack meeting. Three days since Stiles told everyone _why_ he wasn’t going to reverse the spell.

Unfortunately, no one sided with Stiles this time around.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” Peter had said, firm hands gripping the table with shattering force. The pack had relocated to Deaton’s in an attempt to convince Stiles to reverse the spell.

“I don’t think you have a _say_.”

“Bullshit. You’re pack,” Erica had snapped, and Stiles had thrown his hands in the air.

“That’s _why_ I can’t reverse it! I’m not going to kill everyone again!”

“We may be overlooking something very important here,” Deaton had interjected, and he sounded contemplative. “What if time- _history_ \- has been altered?”

“How is that even possible?” Malia had asked, and her incredulous expression was met with Deaton’s enigmatic gaze.

“Stiles says he’s been forgetting things. Maybe his reversal has been altering history itself and the past he remembers no longer exists. It never happened.”

“So if he reversed the spell,” Lydia began, eyes wide as she waited for Deaton’s answer.

“Then maybe nothing will happen.”

The pack may have been triumphant but Stiles knew all too well that guessing didn’t make something true. Hadn’t he been wrong about Derek at first? There was no way to tell if he really _had_ permanently changed history itself. For all he knew his hard work was just an illusion that could be wiped away if he went back.

“Just think about it,” Laura had said softly, and Stiles turned to look at her, dark hair and fierce eyes shining under the lights of the clinic.

“Fine,” Stiles had said.

He didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t about to kill his friends all over again. _I can’t._

 

* * *

 

It’s two a.m. and Stiles should be asleep. His knees are pulled to his chest as he sits on his bed, music echoing in his head via tired earbuds.

Maybe it’s the music or maybe it’s just his general state of mind but Stiles never hears his window open.

Derek stays at the edges of Stiles’ room like he’s afraid to come further in. Stiles turns a little to watch the man stand in the shadows, looking for all his life like he _is_ one of them.

“I would say that this is new but it’s not to me,” Stiles says tiredly, pulling his earbuds out with pale hands.

“Stiles. I just…,” Derek trails off as if he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

The whole scene is too painfully familiar and Stiles doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want this again, this awkward dance they’ve always done where Derek threatens to rip Stiles’ throat out before asking for help. Where acts like he doesn’t need Stiles and Stiles barges into every plan anyways.

Except this time around Derek takes a heavy breath before he walks over to Stiles’ bed, perching on the edge of the computer chair so that he sits at eye level.

“I’m sorry. For saying that you ran,” Derek says quietly, and there are no pregnant pauses in his speech, no grudging edge to his words.

 _He means it_ , Stiles thinks, and he feels both horrified and elated. Derek doesn’t apologize to Stiles. _Ever._ He doesn’t need to; Stiles will always help and accept the threats and shoving he gets for his assistance. For Derek to _apologize_ , though…

“This… _is_ new,” Stiles manages, because he can’t think of anything else to say and his heart has mysteriously hammered its way up to his throat.

Derek look immensely guilty and angry at the same time and it’s a strange combination.

“I…never _apologized_? Did I never…haven’t I…,” Derek looks frustrated as he tries to ask and Stiles cuts him off mercifully.

“No. Not…really. I mean, Scott, yeah. You two…you were getting close, like brothers. I…was a bother on a _good_ day. I mean, you usually threatened to rip my throat out. With your teeth,” Stiles says, and he tries not to wince when he realizes that he’s just slighted the man sitting right before him.

Derek growls, though, and his frustration doesn’t seem to be directed at Stiles.

“I was an _idiot_ ,” Derek growls.

Stiles lets out a short, incredulous laugh because this is _not Derek_. Derek…Derek doesn’t do this. Certainly not with Stiles, at least.

“You _were_ a dick. But what does that make _me_ for trying to save your sorry ass?” Stiles jokes, but he knows he hasn’t hidden the pain in his voice well enough when Derek looks up at him with sorry eyes.

“You’re…you are _perfect_ , Stiles,” Derek says softly, and Stiles can _feel_ his heart stopping.

This is not true. It can’t be true. He’s dreaming right now or Derek is screwing with him or…

“No,” Stiles says, and he’s almost pleading. _Don’t do this to me. Not now._

“You _are,_ ” Derek says fiercely, and his eyes are glowing with a sudden fire. “You protected all of us- you brought us together, Stiles. All on your own. You brought Peter back from a _coma_ and you made sure that my _family_ was safe.”

“I- that was my _job_. I couldn’t just…let him go crazy and kill Laura. Let you…,”

“That’s it. You didn’t just let it happen, Stiles. You stepped between Isaac and his father, you helped Erica and Boyd find a place to belong. You didn’t have to.”

“I _did_ ,” Stiles insists, and he knows he’s going to cry but he fights it with every ounce of his being. “It was _my fault_ in the first place! It was my fault that Scott was bitten, that Peter-,”

“You’re an idiot,” Derek says suddenly, as if he’s just realized something incredible important. Stiles blinks, feeling the stab in his chest.

“Make up your mind. Am I perfect or-,”

“You think it’s all your fault,” Derek says incredulously, and Stiles wants to slap him.

“ _Yes!_ It _is_ , why can’t you-,”

“It’s not your fault,” Derek interrupts. “If you want to blame someone, blame Peter for biting Scott. Blame Kate for setting the fire. Blame _me_ for letting Kate in. _Do not_ blame yourself.”

Stiles can’t speak for a minute because he has to sit there, has to let the words sink in to him as they echo in his head. All of his arguments die on the tip of his tongue.

“It’s not your fault,” Derek says softly, and Stiles looks up through a film of tears to see the sorrow and pain Derek holds. And none of it is for him. It’s for Stiles.

It takes a few minutes for Stiles to completely break down. When he does Derek is there, pulling Stiles into his arms without a word.

 

* * *

 

“I’m scared,” Stiles admits quietly.

Derek’s arms tense around Stiles. They’re both at the edge of his bed, Stiles leaning down in Derek’s embrace. The moon is shining through the window and its light falls across them in blue stripes.

“I know,” Derek says, and Stiles thinks he can hear fear in his voice. “We all are.”

“What if I go back?” Stiles asks, and his question is childish and scared to his own ears.

Derek moves back, hands framing Stiles’ face as he looks at him.

“We won’t die. Not if you’re there,” Derek says, and Stiles shakes his head, laughing tiredly.

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is,” Derek says simply, and he seems to be watching Stiles for something.

“Derek…I don’t want to watch you die. Any of you,” Stiles adds, whispering, hoping that he’s not betraying himself.

Stiles understands just how much everyone matters now but he can’t shake the image of Derek lying on the ground and for some reason it hurts so much more now. _Why?_ _Why does it matter?_

“Just because someone’s dead doesn’t mean they’re gone,” Derek says, and Stiles almost can’t stand the sad smile twisting his lips. “You know that.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“No,” Derek agrees, and then his hand moves to Stiles’ neck, fingers careful.

Stiles can feel his heart drumming away in his chest and he doesn’t even think about the fact that Derek can probably hear it. He can’t control his own heart.

“All you can do is make your time count,” Derek says, and then he’s pulling Stiles forward gently and Stiles _can’t_.

His mind shuts down and he feels his dumbfounded body fall into Derek’s arms and then they’re _kissing_.

Derek isn’t hurried and Stiles thinks he likes the man this way, warm and slow and deliberate and everything he’s never been before.

When they break apart Stiles can feel the tears rising again.

“I don’t want to go,” Stiles manages before the tears take over.

Derek whines, forehead against Stiles and his fingers gripping short hair. They stay there, leaning against each other, and then Derek speaks.

“You have to try.”

 

* * *

 

The items donated by Deaton are heavy in Stiles’ hands as he weighs the pouch almost identical to the one he’d held in an abandoned church in Mexico. The pack are standing in various tense positions around Stiles as he shifts his weight uneasily. The circle drawn in the dirt of the clearing he stands in seems to buzz with energy.

“You don’t have to do this,” Peter says softly.

Stiles licks his lips nervously, glancing down at the bag in his hands for the fiftieth time since he’d mixed the ingredients. He looks up, finding Allison’s strong expression and Isaac’s worried gaze.

“I do,” Stiles says finally, and as he says it he knows it’s true. He _has_ to do this, has to at least try to figure out if he really has changed anything. If he’s saved Erica and Boyd and all the others that died. What’s the use of an illusion if he’s the only one enjoying it?

“Be careful,” Erica says, and her tense smile reminds Stiles of all the things he hasn’t had time to do with her yet. With anyone.

The ghost of Derek’s kiss brushes against Stiles’ lips and he almost drops the bag right then, ready to fling himself at the man with tears and bawling protests. Instead he shifts his weight, standing evenly in the circle, fingers dipping into the cool ashes in the bag.

There is a palpable intake of breath and Stiles pauses, mouth opening unbidden.

“Could you…do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Lydia says immediately, and the pack shift with sudden focus and purposes.

“Could at least _one_ of you look like this is going to work without killing me?”

There is laughter and tears and in that second Stiles moves, quick and precise, wanting the moment to be the last thing he remembers.

The dust flies from his hands in a wide arc as he chants the words with a heavy tongue.

Something tugs at his gut, a string pulling from beneath his stomach, and Stiles opens his mouth in pain. The cry that escapes his lips is startled, pained, worried.

Somewhere in the distance a wolf howls.

 

* * *

 

_Rough voice dark quiet silent contemplating._

_“Maybe the timeline has changed.”_

_Rough voice. Dark hair dark eyes bright white smile fake not happy._

_“I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.”_

_Bright red hair lips throat blood everywhere screaming crying._

_“ALLISON!”_

_Mind on fire melting walls falling down pain so much pain hate chaos hurt._

_“When is a door not a door?”_

_A light. Dust. Powder. Time moving and turning and folding and breaking._

_Warm hands bright eyes tired smile warmth love caring._

_“Stiles. Breathe with me.”_

_Bright smile joy love care awe._

_“Sure, Batman.”_

_Quiet steady solid reassuring needing awe love._

_“So we’re friends now.”_

_Strong passionate caring fierce loving._

_“Well, any friend of yours.”_

_Quiet hurt healing small smile trusting love._

_“What am I looking for?”_

_Tall strong defiant bright laughter fierce love._

_“He’s different.”_

_Strong protective loving sure._

_“That’s not it.”_

_Headstrong sure loyal love._

_“Stilinski.”_

_Red fierce smart strong love._

_“Stiles.”_

_Dark hair dark eyes teeth and hazel eyes strong hands a hug a kiss._

_“You have to try.”_

**_Pack._ **

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t know how long he was out. All he’s aware of is a soft warmth enveloping him and the sensation of floating.

“I think he’s awake.”

A stage whisper, and a bad one at that. Female.

“Dude, shut up.”

A bored voice, definitely male. Annoyed but good-natured.

Stiles can’t remember his dream. There’s the remnants of something painful buried in his subconscious but he can’t bring the details up and part of him doesn’t want to.

“Whussgoinon,” Stiles manages, mouth sticky with sleep and eyes still cinderblock-heavy.

“Hey, dorkwad,” Jackson chirps from nearby. It _is_ Jackson. Stiles dimly feels his heart skip and wonders at that. Why?

“You were out for a while there. Something happen?” Allison. Smiling a little, bending over the arm of the couch where Stiles’ head rests on a pillow. His heart beats painfully again.

“If you tried to do another stupid spell without enough energy I’ll scream in your ears,” Lydia says from her spot next to Jackson. There’s his heart.

What’s wrong with him?

“Yeah. I…something weird,” Stiles manages, waving his hand a little. Peter raises his eyebrow as he observes Stiles from the staircase. The Hale house has been torn down, the new house beautiful, each board resonating with love and trust and pack.

Why is that important?

“Stop crowding him,” Erica says from the kitchen and Stiles wonders if she’s trying to sneak Cheerios again. “You know it’ll make _him_ mad.”

Who’s him? Why is he confused? Is he not completely awake yet?

There’s a beat of mild chatter that Stiles tunes out as the pack move around the rooms. It’s a familiar, comfortable buzz of activity.

The charge in the air changes and Stiles feels every hair on his arm stand to attention.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath, heartbeat increasing minutely at the sound of footsteps approaching the couch. The feet stop at the arm of the chair and Stiles tilts his head back to see the figure towering over him.

Hazel eyes. Dark hair. A small, almost invisible smile.

Stiles feels his heart beat painfully, once, yearning.

Derek leans down to press a kiss to Stiles’ lips.

The pack doesn’t comment, everyone tending to their own business. Stiles thinks he feels the world stop revolving for a moment, every fixed point in space and time freezing to accommodate the sheer force of their connection.

“Feeling better?” Derek asks quietly, and as he leans over Stiles there’s a private smile, wider and softer than anything Stiles has ever seen.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies softly as he blinks, all the painful throbbing of his heart suddenly gone.

He can’t remember why he felt worried or scared. Something about a dream? It doesn’t matter.

Whatever it was that had been bothering him is gone. Stiles scoots up the couch, pulling Derek down to rest his head in his lap. Derek’s hands are firm and warm on Stiles’ chest as they rest above his heart. For a moment Stiles wants to go back to sleep.

Derek seems to notice Stiles’ tiredness and he smiles fondly, pulling blankets from the opposite couch onto the ground. There are pillows and a soft, plush carpet that forms a circle in the center of the room. Derek nods at Jackson and the boy nods briefly, moving to turn the lights off. All that remains is a lamp.

The pack trickle in one by one, yawning and stretching. They lay on the pile of blankets and pillows in a complicated tangle of limbs that doesn’t appear to make any sense but Stiles knows better. The gentle entanglement is support, reassurance, love.

Stiles blinks wearily, looking back at Derek as the man holds him close. Stiles feels bad for sleeping so much but he’s just so tired. He wonders vaguely why that is.

“Sleep,” Derek murmurs softly, and Stiles feels the queer beat of his heart again.

“I don’t want to go,” Stiles replies, and it’s not what he meant to say but if feels _right_ to his tired mind. Derek doesn’t seem concerned as he smiles and hugs Stiles closer.

“We’ll be right here when you wake up,” Derek whispers, and Stiles nods once, tired.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself float back into dreams of smiles and laughter and the antics of teenage werewolves. It feels like family. It feels like pack.

It feels like home.

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY! Wow. It took longer than I thought to wrap this up. Honestly, I don't even know if I did this story justice. I just loved the idea of a fix-it and I seriously needed the happy outlet after the emotional wringer that was S4. Anyhow, I tried to do the plausible thing here. I think Stiles is smart enough to realize that not trying the reversal would be a mistake and I think that a catalyst like potential death would be pretty big enough for alternate-Derek to get his head out of his ass and just frickin' do something.  
> As for the time-travel: Stiles reversing the spell reset things but since he'd gone back to alter everything since Peter the future he went 'back' to was different. Hence the obviously established Sterek and the happy pack. Stiles not remembering has to do with the fact that it 'never happened'. Confusing, I know. But I like it.  
> As always, Read and Review! I love you all!


End file.
